


Caught Between Two Shores

by regulsh



Category: Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blow Jobs, Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22328896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulsh/pseuds/regulsh
Summary: The European tour had just finished, which Elton was dearly anticipating, and John had arranged a five day trip across the Atlantic on abloody cruise shipto record the next album, which he was not.
Relationships: Elton John & Bernie Taupin, Elton John/John Reid
Comments: 9
Kudos: 26





	Caught Between Two Shores

**Author's Note:**

> i’d like to fuck the academy
> 
> finally got it together to write something in the world of this movie that i love so goddamn much! this is entirely a representation/interpretation of the characters and relationships as depicted therein, not the real people involved. this is also a fuzzy mishmash, timeline-wise, of the movie post-honky cat + an actual trip that occurred in 1974. some details are lifted from reality, but it's otherwise a fabrication, we know what we’re doing here, right

The European tour had just finished, which Elton was dearly anticipating, and John had arranged a five day trip across the Atlantic on a _bloody cruise ship_ to record the next album, which he was not. 

Elton couldn't believe it; not that he’d miss much about the hateful airless tube, but more shocked that John had made such plans without his consultation. He never gave up travel arrangements easily, even insisted on planning the trip with his mum and Derf over Christmas (a resort in Barbados for a few days as a gift—he laid out the lavish plans to her over the phone and she had listened and sighed and said _but it gets so hot there_ —then decamping with his entourage to Rio for New Year’s— _they wear all white_ , John had said, he always knows things like that—really just a stopover before Dallas for shows in January, and then... he can’t even remember what, after that.)

John had reasoned with him about it. _Led Zeppelin needs the plane to get to Australia_ and _I’ve booked a first class suite, just for you_ and _ocean air is good for your constitution_ and Elton replied _is that so sailor_ , forgave him instantly, tweaked his nose, much to his displeasure.

Some of the rest of their crew took more convincing, but they managed to board and shove off from Southampton on time, moaning about coffee and their quarters before even reaching them.

-

Elton lingers aboveboard in the mid-morning sun. In the airliner, all he gets is the cabin and the insufferable people stuck in it; sometimes a small glittering tableau from the window if he can be arsed to lift the shade. Here he can see _everything,_ lord of all he surveys, which he fancies. The sun on his face, the breeze cooling his cheeks; he closes his eyes, breathes it in. 

Captivated, he peers over the side to witness the churning edge of foam against the hull. That’s how it feels, at the best of it: large, powerful, singular. Splitting the sea, unmoored and untouchable. The rail is sticky with salt spray, when he peels his hand from it.

Elton finally retreats to his cabin and calls down for tea. In the meanwhile he looks out through his porthole, dreamily imagines the free, roguish life of a pirate. Swashbuckling and billowing shirts and the lot.

He hears the door open behind him and a familiar footfall, the click of a lock. A hand slides onto his shoulder. 

“What do you see,” John murmurs.

Elton turns back and draws his chin in for a kiss, which turns into John petting him and moaning: blowjobs before toast.

“I quite like this,” Elton casually remarks, as he sips from his teacup. He’s learned to wear the spoils of his career lightly but it still takes effort sometimes, schooling his joy at things he could scarcely imagine a few years ago.

“It’s private. Nice.” John affirms. His gaze is warm, roving over Elton’s face, and he feels a smile twitch and bloom under his attention. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” he replies; mild, but meant. Schooling his joy. Things he could scarcely imagine a few years ago.

“This—” John flicks his eyes around the suite. “It makes you happy?”

Elton answers with another kiss over the china, jam-flavored this time.

John grips his jaw and hums into it, pleased. “Good. That’s all I care about.”

-

The tour scraped him clean, his energy low, fizzing on empty adrenaline. Gawking passengers are rare and largely leave him alone, a small mercy. Maybe John was right; maybe the longer travel, the enforced idleness, will give him time to recuperate, rest his voice and weary body. For all the goddamn traveling he does he never _sees_ anything, never has any time, shuttled from venue to car to airport and back again, feels about as worldly and travelled as his mum who’s never been on holiday outside Europe as long as she’s lived. He’ll get to take her on a trip soon, flaunt his earnings, and they’ll see a new country. It’ll be a small victory for both of them, especially if they can get through it without throttling each other.

They sail serenely over the Atlantic and Elton spends his time as he sees fit. No production quibbles or scheduling headaches; the biggest decision he has to make is if he wants to try his hand at squash or ping pong, have the veg or the escalope for lunch. He sits in the lounge and breathes through a span of hours with no immediate demands on his time, and can’t honestly remember the last time that was the case. 

It’s mesmerizing, staring out at the wrinkled surface of the ocean, teal and brilliant. Something about it; he gazes unseeing for long minutes at a time, moved to scratch terrible lyrics on a bar napkin that he instantly discards, stuffs under his drink, the ring of condensation bleeding the biro.

He can’t ignore it for too long, can’t pretend; he's impatient to get to work. Scrabbles together time on the one creaky piano on board whenever the fucking _opera singer_ who's booked it the entire trip abandons it. It fills him with incredible trepidation, every time, even now, an endless expanse of corridors open to him before he looks at the lines. Infinite possibility, until he reads and his hands move and he stumbles down one. It never feels like drawing the muses about him, more like picking the right answer on a quiz. It's his talent, it's his training, it's. Bernie.

And these lyrics, are. 

Personal. About them. 

His eyes are wet as he shuffles one aside and reaches for the next, from staring at the page unblinking too long, must be. They had talked about it, spun up fierce promises and whispers about _the next one_ in dressing rooms and hotels, but to see it on the page—

He doesn’t have to imagine the tone or search for the right feeling. It’s all there, all in the words, in his heart, in his memories, in his fingers as they tease out strain after soaring strain, spinning gold from graphite.

-

Elton tells him as much. “Bernie. Bern, the _songs_ —” Sloshed and clutching at him, beaming. Drinks before dinner, he hasn’t eaten much all day. He bangs his hip into the bar, brass and walnut, the whole room expensive and cheap at the same time. Seashell sconces, a bit on the nose, _really_.

Bernie laughs, slopping his own pint glass. “Good?”

“Good, great, fucking ridiculous, I—” Elton holds Bernie’s wrist, teary. “You absolute bastard.”

“Same t’you.” Bernie gives him a watery grin.

Elton sets his glass down and plucks Bernie’s from his hand, careful now. Pulls him in for an embrace, Bernie’s arms tugging tight around his back. Elton pets clumsily at his head, his shoulders, so fond. 

“What would I do,” he mumbles. Who would he be; where would he be. Not fucking here, that’s for sure, maybe not even—

They hear a throat being cleared. John, finally having joined the festivities, regards them coolly as they split apart. “Have I interrupted?”

“Yes,” Bernie says flatly. Elton shuffles his feet for the just-too-long moment it takes for Bernie to drain his pint. “Off for another,” he remarks as he salutes them with his empty. He returns to the bar and Elton sees him flag down the bartender and, after a beat, slide two seats down to a woman sitting alone.

“Where have you been?” Elton asks. “I’ve been amusing myself all day.”

“Working.” John smirks. “You’ve been amused, then?”

He’s defensive, suddenly. “Well, working too.”

“New songs? You’ll have to play them for me.”

“Yeah, I— yeah. They’re... they’re great,” Elton murmurs, soft, a small smile. “Bernie—”

John cuts in, terse, “Good. We’ll see how they work.”

“Twat,” Elton replies carelessly. “You know they will.”

John lifts his chin. “I have news.”

“Mmm?”

John takes a long sip from his highball, delighting in dangling it, and Elton recognizes it and hates it and loves it, all at once.

“We’ve been invited to dine with the captain tomorrow,” he relays, a note of pride in his voice.

“Ooh, how very swank. Who’d you have to blow for that?”

“Didn’t get his name,” John says easily, and Elton—doesn’t know if he’s joking.

“I’ll tell the others.” Elton cranes his neck to find Bernie in the crowd; him and the girl are nowhere to be seen at the bar.

He feels John’s eyes on him as he looks around. “The invitation is just for you, and myself.”

“Oh, come on now. At least Bernie will have to be there.”

John presses his lips together. “It’s a very limited seating. Hard enough to get us in. I thought you’d—”

“Don’t be absolutely stupid,” Elton rebuts. He can see John is a moment away from putting his foot down, so he edges closer. “It would make me happy, to have him there,” Elton says sweetly. “I thought you wanted me to be happy?”

John’s face—tightens, flits between emotions, his brow pinching, and then it smooths, utterly blank.

“Wouldn’t you be happier with your cock up my arse, dear?” His voice is just low and fluid enough to blend in with the clink of glasses, the peals of laughter, the susurration of the crowd. Elton blinks.

“Well, if you insist.”

John sets down his half full glass on the bar and walks away without another word. Elton watches him go, gulps the rest of his drink, waits a minute or two and strides after him.

-

He wakes the next morning in John’s room, alone. For a few dreamy minutes he lounges, thinking John’s maybe gone to arrange for breakfast in the room, but as the minutes tick on it’s clear he’s just been left by himself. Elton slopes off to his own room for a shower and a shave and eats a cantaloupe wedge in the lounge, fuming, before searching the ship for him. There’s a cacophony of laughter from the games room and John is leading it, neatly dressed and cackling over a round of bridge with their crew.

“There you all are,” Elton proclaims, although his eyes stay fixed on John, who greets him with an easy smile.

“Fancy a game? Gus is out fifty quid already.”

Gus swears as he shuffles, and John swivels a finger at Elton. “By the way, Bernie will join us tonight. I’ve arranged it.”

“For what?” Gus asks, and John ignores him.

“Oh, good.” Elton’s uneasy, lingering at the door as John deals hands. “You know, this morning, I—”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” John interrupts, hard.

Elton pauses. “Well, yes. Thank you.” _Thank you sir, another sir, please._ He takes a breath. “I think I will join, if you don’t mind. Be my partner?”

They place bets; John sucks his ring finger and twists his onyx-inlaid gold band off, his eyes on Elton the whole time, and clatters it on the table. “No more cash,” he shrugs.

Two can very well play at this game. Elton beats them all soundly in a one-off round, winks at John and stuffs their pound notes into his pockets before swanning off without a second look. Perhaps he’ll go for a swim.

As luck would have it, he catches Bernie in the corridor, wearing dripping trunks and a smile. “Some beautiful girls at the pool,” Bernie says, dazed.

"How tempting,” Elton intones. Bernie rolls his eyes. “So you know, we're dining with the captain tonight. Do make an effort." Elton likes making pompous demands of Bernie, who will as often easily agree as cuff him on the shoulder and tell him to fuck off.

Bernie does the latter this time, but Elton knows he’ll show up his best. Bernie’s always good like that.

He abandons the idea of the pool, uses the ship-to-shore telephone to call his office and get an update on the recent sales numbers instead: _platinum_ , he could skip. He kicks his feet on the desk as his secretary runs through the rest of the business.

He’s digging a troublesome bit of dirt from under his thumbnail when she says quickly at the end, much too rushed, “ _Oh_ , and your mother rang. ‘Can't make Christmas,’ was the message.”

His hands drop. He checks the blinking line of the connection. “That’s all?”

Part disbelief, part rising anger; they cancel each other out evenly as they meet in him, leaving him hollow and hot-feeling. 

“Anything else?” he sniffs.

“That’s all, I’m afraid.” The girl does indeed sound afraid. And damn it all, he’s most furious that dear old mummy has still gotten to him, through a third party and a literal ocean away, her red lacquered talons in his heart. The one time he tries to do something nice, extend an olive branch, and she can’t even be bothered to be polite when she lights it on fire.

“Right. Thank you. Set up a call with my travel agent once we reach America.” He is rather agreeable on the phone, to his credit, but slams the receiver too hard into its cradle.

-

The Chambord, as he finds that night, is half performance hall, half dining room. A grand staircase sweeps down to the floor; women in gaudy Halston frocks pause and preen, the red-faced men accompanying them dutifully propping up their bony bangled arms. Who could possibly give a shit. He supposes in this little microcosm it’s a critical thing, to see and be seen; global fame has somewhat altered his perception of what more normal people care about. 

Or maybe the powder before dinner just made him bitchy.

( _I'm bored_ , John had proclaimed and dragged him into the loo, ignoring Elton’s weak protestations, tossing toiletries off the mirrored vanity tray in exchange for lines. He stuck his tongue in his mouth to lick the remnants from Elton's gums, laughing.

“Darling,” John had murmured, kissing him, and kissing him again. “Ever since we’ve bought the boat you’ve become so distant from me.”

Elton played along, dryly. “We must instruct Hans to take better care of this one. You know I much prefer our other cruiser for shorter jaunts.”

John kissed his neck, reached down to fondle him over his trousers.

“Besides,” Elton moaned, it slipping away, “I’ve been—busy working—”

“I have something for you to work on,” John teased lowly.

“You're horrendous,” Elton chastised, then whined as John knelt and took him deftly into his mouth.

No better feeling than this, the twin buzz of coke looping in his blood and John’s throat around him. He worked himself deeper, enjoying the initial electric high before it could incapacitate him, hot and hard as he thrust and came in his mouth, everything sparkling white. He regained his vision just soon enough to see John’s face screwed up with effort and plastered to his thigh as he grunted and spilled over his hand.

John stood and Elton reached for him, said _honey_ , oddly soft—

And they were interrupted by a banging at the door, John unlocking it and sweeping out, leaving Elton to hide in a stall before he too, left.)

The table is finely set, in the captain’s tucked-away alcove, and populated with other apparently important passengers. John sits across from him, Bernie at his side. Elton’s pleasantly high, just enough to dazzle: he holds court, ever magnanimous, volleying with Bernie while sending his foot under the table, searching, nudging against John's ankle.

It’s a sumptuous dinner: trout, baby asparagus, caviar in precious little crystal dishes (“Five tons a year, we go through,” the captain blusters), ice cream parfaits; all quite lush. A mandolin player hovers too close to them and Elton tips him lavishly to get him to scarper. He wills it all to relax him, hoping the good company, the two most important men in his life, a fabulous dinner will sort him out.

The dining room is almost empty by the time they finish, other diners scared off by the late hour or their raucous banter, he doesn’t know or care which. The conversation had only gotten louder and more vicious as the night went on and the drinks were poured, and Elton rode atop the fracas delightedly.

"You're incredible. Dinner on the high seas," he says dozily, once the plates have been cleared. The coke has receded and the wine has got to his head, speaks to John like they're the only two people in the room.

Immediately senses his displeasure and the hard set of his face. Only momentary, might not be noticeable to another. 

"Only the best for my clients," John says smoothly, and Elton lifts his glass in silence, shamed, has the common sense to at least not let it show on his face.

He feels the need to right the ship, as it were. “You know, John’s the finest manager in the business, when he feels like it,” Elton jibes.

John responds, giddy, “Someone’s got to be, what with the shite you’ve been cranking out. Not worth the vinyl it’s printed on,” and the table roars. Elton drains his glass. 

These goddamn people. Boozed to the gills, only the thinnest veil of propriety over boorish behavior the likes of which he thought he left behind in dinner halls ages ago.

The waiter returns, some fucking kid, and stutters through the post drinks menu, kirs and espresso and champagnes. John looks like he’s about to eat him alive, and Elton sucks his teeth as he rambles on.

“I do wonder if waitstaff have a brain in their heads sometimes. The d’Ambonnay, if you please.”

Bernie mutters, “Jesus, Elton,” then says to the waiter, "Same for me. For the table." 

Bernie tuts at Elton, once the waiter’s back is turned. "You've never suffered fools."

"People shouldn't be fucking foolish," Elton snipes back. He's all at once ratty, wants to get the fuck out of here. Wants to grab the bottle and head back to his room, Bernie in tow to gossip. Or John, hole up and spit a fizzing mouthful into his mouth, dribble on the awful sheets, sticky.

He takes several deep breaths, and when he turns to Bernie to suggest just that he’s leaned away, his arm around the back of the chair next to his, whispering into a tittering woman’s ear.

Elton stands, scraping his chair back, the noise startling even him as he covers with a nasty smile.

“You all have been great fun. I hope you remember this evening forever, because I certainly won’t.”

He stalks off, gets almost to the door before a hand on his elbow jerks him back, hard, John’s voice on fire in his ear. “ _Elton_.”

He spins and swats at him. “Don’t ever fucking embarass me,” he bites.

He escapes to the loo and paces and mutters, furious that his mum, John, Bernie, _himself_ , have gone and sunk the whole fucking evening. He sits on the floor seething for lack of anything better to do, pats his pockets before remembering John had taken the snuffbox, shit, shit. 

John.

Shit. 

He’s fucked up. Not the first time, won’t be the last, but he never fucking _learns_. People are too happy to suffer anything when you’re paying the fucking bills, bland smiles and avoided stares that make him even angrier, make him want to lash out more, scream, _does anybody fucking understand_ —

But his anger is leaking away now with no one to stoke it, misery rising in its place. Shame, too; it keeps him stuck in place for long minutes before it propels him, shoes squeaking on the tile as he gets to his feet. He goes back to the dining room, and it’s darkened and locked. Shit.

He hikes back through the empty corridors, driven, single-minded. Has he just spent all day chasing John? It feels like it. He speeds up, rounds the corner and runs straight into Bernie who intercepts him, calm. He’s leant against the wall, he’s—been waiting for him, outside John’s room. Maybe Elton is more predictable than he thought. 

“Are you alright?”

“God, not fucking now,” Elton moans. 

Bernie shoves his hands in his pockets. “Reg, come on. Do you think—”

“I’m not joking. Piss off.” Bernie steps back at the vitriol in his voice, his mouth a thin line. Bernie’s eyes flick to the door; Elton knows _he_ knows John’s in there waiting for him—as what, does he think. A manager? A lover? A minder? He wishes he knew, too. Can’t conceive of what kind of calculus Bernie does in his head. 

Bernie gives him one last look and Elton watches the sullen retreat of his shoulders as he goes; did he always have to be so goddamn reasonable.

Whatever, he can fuck off, they can all fuck off—

But John is upset with him and he knows it can’t stand, he’ll pay for it in some way if he lets it fester. More than that, it makes him itch, makes him want to plead, he can’t stomach Bernie’s freely given love sometimes but is compelled to scrabble at John to win his. It gives him something to do in the quiet times, scraping together the bits of themselves to cobble something together that looks like a functioning relationship in a dim light. Just one more bit of amusement John has provided him on this trip; how wonderful.

He opens the door to see John splayed on the divan, an arm thrown over his face, legs spread wide. His shirt is half open; Elton watches the rise and fall of his chest. The anxiety in his guts twists, burrowing deeper, turning hot.

“Get out, you prick.” John speaks without moving, without uncovering his eyes.

Elton sidles over to him. “Speaking of,” he wheedles, aiming for normality, sliding into John’s lap. He drapes himself over him shamelessly, bites at his earlobe, hand wriggling into his shirt. “How about—“

His hand is wrenched away, John’s eyes and hands fierce, gripping his wrist tight as Elton squirms.

“After that display? I think not.”

“Too good for it, are you?” Bristling, he snatches his wrist back, rubbing it. 

John laughs, unpleasantly. “What, Bernie not around to tuck you in? No time to suck each other off over the music?” He mutters something under his breath that sounds like _bloody artists_. 

Elton narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t know about it, would you. Goddamn leech.”

“You fucking spoilt child. Why are you acting like this? Ruining everything.”

“Maybe it’s you, arsehole.” He goes to shove him and keeps his hands there, pressing hot against his chest. Stares through him, empty. “And my mum called.” His hands slide down. “Begged off Christmas. Could _never_ have thought her the type, but there you go."

“Jesus, _that’s_ —?” John pauses. Huffs. “We’ll make other plans. No need to pitch a fucking fit.”

“M’not— you know how she is. Left a message with my secretary. God forbid she phone me.”

“Call her back. Tell her you’re too busy enjoying seamen.” John’s fingers trace at his temple, go to tuck behind his ear; he bats them away as his cheeks flame. 

John senses his overreaction, sighs.

“You still haven’t told her.”

“...No, but—”

“Elton. You have to. I’ve made this very clear.”

It’s always very clear with John, he always makes it so. Each word just leaves him feeling battered and weaker. “I know. I know.”

“And yet, you don’t do it.” John sits up and shakes his hands off him; Elton retreats to the edge of the divan. “To hell with me, to hell with your career, is that it?”

“No.” Elton slumps back. "No.”

He feels every inch the child that John accused him of being. 

“I just wish I could know.” he mutters. Plucks glumly at a tuft in the cushion. “I wish I could know. What will happen.” 

He lifts his head, gives his best impression of a grin; John doesn’t seem appeased. “Maybe she'll be fucking thrilled."

John looks at him for a long, long time, searching. Elton can hear, beyond the walls, the empty whistle of the wind outside.

John says, carefully, “It's never not going to matter." 

Elton—knows. The cautious dance tonight at dinner; every dinner, every party, lines drawn around them. Lines drawn between them; their names neatly separate on the ship logbook. John high strung about the press over the years, his insistence on battering him with talking points which Elton mostly waved off. 

_It’s never not going to matter._

Never? Not in five years, not in fifty years? Not if he smashes a hundred more sales records, tops all the charts, yanks praise from everyone’s hands? 

John is ever pragmatic. Maybe even meant to be kind, him saying it, but it feels like another blow. When he looks at John his eyes are still forged and bitter, but there’s something behind them, almost soft, almost mournful. Elton wants to reach for him, almost does.

Thinks of Bernie, who’d said a million years ago in a grotty pub, _no, not to me_.

“Well, I don’t care,” Elton bluffs instead. “Why should I? Everything is going just fabulously.”

“Because of _me_ ,” John seethes, voice rising. “Because of everything I’ve done. And everything I’ve done, is to protect you. You can’t see that?”

"Forget it," Elton grumbles, deflated. "I didn’t— I know. Let's go to bed, please."

John is all at once cool. Elton hates how he does that, hates how he’ll see John scream himself red, or sweat and pant as he releases in Elton’s mouth, and button his jacket and walk off like a sunny Sunday morning. He’s too good at it.

John lifts himself up. “Fair enough. Goodnight.” He turns to the dresser and starts unhooking necklaces from his neck, dismissive.

Elton feels an acute sense of failure for not the first time in so many years. An inability to meet John’s standards, divine his plans, accept his will.

He stands, sways a little. “But I—”

John looks at him in the mirror, stopping him cold. “This is my room.”

They’ve—

Shouted at each other, plenty. But Elton just doesn’t have the fight in him tonight. And it’s not the cavernous freedom of their residence, plenty of empty rooms and walls to bounce their voices off of. There’s people all around here, slumbering, rooms stacked above and below and on all sides of them. He feels suddenly very very trapped, pinned beneath John’s gaze, suffocated by layers of gauche tapestry and vibrating glass and heavy steel. 

He just wants to be alone.

He exits John’s room without another word, stomps back down the hall before thinking better of it and makes his way to the bar, the one place left open at this hour, scattered with the dregs of desperate sodden humanity. Slides an exorbitant amount to the barman for a bottle of scotch for one; greased palms make everything easy, even with this extremely greasy crowd.

He leaves with his prize, needs to be up high, get some fresh air. He clambers up to the deck (closed now, a polite chain across the stair that he doesn’t even give a thought to, nothing a rule has ever done for him) and kicks out the door, but the sharp night sea air—it flares his nostrils, smells wild and deep and dangerous, like it’s not meant to be smelled by people. The whipping wind, the black flat of the ocean terrifies him, sending him scuttling back below decks.

He stumbles on the stairs. It’s impossible, the movement of the boat is as flat and smooth as it’s ever been, but he lurches with the sensation of hurtling forward while standing absolutely still. Intellectually, he knows it can’t be so—he grabs his head and moans—but sometimes the gap between knowing something and feeling something is so unfortunately large.

He’s a phantom moving through the gilded corridors, angry at himself for being foolish and scared, jumping at creaks and far away door slams. Frightened that someone in the dead of night will come across the rumpled rockstar with filched booze and a hunted expression.

He doesn’t know where to go. He can’t stand to be in his room, stacked in his cell with the other miserable hordes. He ends up huddled in the games room, back pressed to the wall, cloistered. He takes long pulls of scotch from the bottle and just breathes and breathes and breathes. The round smell of felt and chalk and rubber, the blackness rich and warm and friendly, not cold and terrifyingly vast.

He just needs to be alone.

-

He wakes— disoriented—

The room spins as he sits up, the bottle inert and tipped over, darkening the diamond patterned carpet. His eyeballs ache, his chest hurts, he can _smell_ himself; sour booze and sourer sweat. It’s only a few hours later, according to his jeweled wristwatch. 

Creeping back to his room has become a depressingly well-developed skill at this point. He showers, shivering under the boiling spray. The mirror unfairly reflects his flush-mottled grey face, his red rimmed eyes, and he turns away from it. He just—needs some coffee.

It’s early enough that the lounge is mostly empty, but he sees a familiar worn jacket, a familiar head of hair; Bernie sat at the high ledge looking out over the ocean, clutching a steaming cup of coffee.

Elton joins him, and Bernie startles. He blinks slowly; he looks only marginally better than he himself must. They both sit and sip, accustomed to the grinding grudging climb out of a hangover together; shared memories, or lack thereof, and joint commiseration the morning after.

Elton can’t speak.

Bernie finally does. “Are you good?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Light, or trying to be.

Bernie takes a noisy sip. “How’s John.”

“How’s the new Mrs. Taupin?”

Elton takes his mutinous silence for an answer.

Relents. “I’m fine. Dunno, about John. I was by myself last night.”

He can feel Bernie’s eyes on him, studying him. His face feels sagged and dry, still reeking, even after the shower. He shuffles his jacket around himself. Stares out the window.

Bernie looks out at the same sea, and takes his hand. Draws it away from where he's clutching his jacket, squeezing it, grasping it. Curls his own over top, and just—holds his hand. Bernie holds his hand, gently in between the two of his, tender and non-judgmental.

A sweet, small gesture. Bernie's palms are warm, from the heat of the coffee.

Elton can’t see the sea anymore. Has to blink back a flood of tears.

“I’ve got to—” His voice is shaky and hoarse as he clambers off the stool and stumbles out, away. Bernie could be calling after him, could be chasing after him, he doesn't know. Nothing makes sense. His brain hurts. 

He doesn’t— he doesn’t have anything.

-

His feet swerve, as he leaves the lounge.

-

He has one thing.

He’ll throw the opera singer overboard if he needs to. What he has, what he _needs,_ is to work, bash it all into the piano. This is what he does. Nothing else for it, is there, when there’s music and money to be made.


End file.
